


Stay Golden

by Penelopiad



Series: Step Over the Line [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (new), Cabins, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Mornings, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penelopiad/pseuds/Penelopiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer. They're in Winnipeg. And this is their first morning. Finally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorrylatenew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrylatenew/gifts).



> So, a while ago (as in last summer), I told sorrylatenew that if she finished one of her 23612783 WIPs I'd write her a short fic of her choice. She did (you should totally read it, it's amazeballs). And yes, it took me all this time to _finally_ write it for her. But better late than never, eh? Um.
> 
> She wanted a fluffy morning fic, which we both super like, so that's what I've endeavoured to write. Half-way through I realised I was writing the sequel to Step Over the Line, so that also happened. I don't think you need to have read the first fic to understand this--it's mostly fluff--but maybe some details will be better appreciated, or make more sense if you have.
> 
> Thanks to kylezy for her support and to sorrylatenew for doing a quick SPaG check on her own fic (lol)

 

 

Sunlight. 

Harsh, bright sunlight that pours in right in his face, blinding even with his eyes closed. 

He pulls his arm out of the covers, heavy in the shoulder, and slaps himself in the face, hand uncoordinated and full of pins and needles. Shielding his eyes, Patrick blinks, but where he was expecting bright light, he only sees the warm, pinkish dimness of the room.

He moves his head to the side, out of the sunshine creeping in between the bent slats in the cheap venetian blinds, and takes a deep breath, limp hand slipping down on the pillow beside him. 

Far off, but probably closer than it sounds, a boat passes by on the lake, makes waves that lap at the bank, and rock the dock, but in the room everything’s muffled, faint. In here, there’s only Patrick’s own breathing. And Jonny’s. Jonny, who’s glued to Patrick’s side, one arm across Patrick’s chest and the other above both their heads, mouth smushed against Patrick’s shoulder, drooling like the gross fucker he is. 

Time goes languid, everything malleable, it seems, hazy and muted except for Jonny’s heavy breaths in his ear—deep inhales and the slight wheeze of air through his nose. It’s very known and also very new in its closeness.

Patricks’ right leg is wrapped by Jonny’s, thigh well and truly jammed between Jonny’s humongous ones. He manages to slowly bend his left knee so his leg slides out from under the comforter, a slight respite after being stuck there all night. Everywhere they touch is slick with sweat. The air feels thick and sticky, but Patrick doesn’t move more than he already did, just turns his head to look at his fingers, curled on the pillow in the patch of sunlight he’s moved out of—at all the ridges, the bitten off edges of his nails, the fading blue spot on his thumb where Jonny closed a taxi door on it four weeks ago back in Chicago. 

Jonny snorts in his sleep and Patrick pinches his lips together, body giving a small jerk with his restrained laughter. He turns his head to the other side to brush Jonny’s sweaty forehead with his mouth. 

The sun comes in through the little holes in the blinds’ slats where they’re bound together, and they make little lines of sunshine-spots on the beige carpet and the foot of the bed. One’s landed right on the tip of Jonny’s big toe. Jonny should cut his toenails. 

God—fuck. Jonny’s all trimmed and waxed and groomed, but has disgusting toenails and it makes Patrick laugh, makes him bite his lip to keep it inside. What a fucking vain, dorky asshole. Patrick can’t deal with how much he loves this loser.

“Wut—” Jonny says beside him, lips spitty and voice rough.

Patrick extricates himself so he can turn on his side and face Jonny, whispers, “shut up you whiny baby,” when Jonny makes a small, disgruntled sound, not moving his head when it falls into the pillows. Jonny’s eyelids are heavy, and he keeps blinking at Patrick, face half buried in. His hair’s a disaster. He’s got deep red lines from the sheets on his cheek and dry saliva at the corner of his mouth and Patrick would still get all up in that anyway.

It’s like, now he can, now the simmering _something_ that’d been between them for years has boiled over, and Patrick can’t stop the way it expands inside of him, fast and relentless.

He reaches a hand out and uses his nail to pick at Jonny’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Jonny slurs, dragging the back of his hand on his chin where he drooled then wiping it clean on Patrick’s chest.

“You’ve got—jizz. There.”

“Ugh. Gross.”

“Your fault.”

“Fuck off, it’s your jizz.”

Patrick singsongs, “Shouldn’t have been so hot if you didn’t want it,” and peels the dry come from Jonny’s skin, flicks it at his forehead, laughing when Jonny screws up his face and glares at him. He’s still too asleep to do much more than looking pissy about it, though, so he simply kicks at Patrick with his knife-like toenails of doom.

“Fucking weapons, man.” Patrick’s feet push back on Jonny’s ankles to keep them away, toes slipping on the sweat-slick skin of his shins. 

“Serves you right, asshole,” Jonny says, then turns his face into the pillow in a move Patrick has seen countless times, in rooms all over two countries, full of morning grumpiness and fuck-off vibes. And it hits Patrick then, like it hadn’t until now. Not when Jonny took him on the lake to profess his undying love (it’s the official story and he’s sticking to it, suck it Jonny), or when they had a very mature and adult conversation about the future right after before making out like teenagers under the searing summer sun, Patrick sitting in Jonny’s lap, shorts full of come. Not when Patrick got to lick lake water off Jonny’s abs, or when he sucked Jonny off, then straddled his chest to fucking mess him all up, Jonny’s fingers digging in his thighs, telling Patrick to—“come on, do it, Peeks. Want it—Want—C’mon. Wanna taste it.” Not any of those times between the moment he landed in Winnipeg and this very second.

This is—fuck. This is _Jonny_. 

He’s soft and sleep-warm and Patrick wants to close the small space between them to get his skin on Jonny’s. Rub on him until they smell the same. Kiss his jaw and trace the edge of his shoulderblades and know how it feels to have Jonny turn his face in Patrick’s neck and nuzzle the smooth curve of it, let Jonny find out how much Patrick likes being licked there. He wants to _caress_ him, for fuck’s sake, his hands achy and empty and it’s ridiculously sappy, even for him. But he wants it. But it’s— 

But it’s _Jonny_. 

Patrick’s skin prickles, hot on his neck and behind his eyes, wanting to spread his hand wide on Jonny’s stomach, but curling his fingers in the pillowcase instead.

“This is weird,” he whispers, not angry or even panicked, more like he’s talking about the weather. Why yes, Oliver, this is a fine morning indeed.

Jonny peeks at him from the hole he’s made for himself in the pillows. “Too weird?”

“What? No. I—No. Just. Weird, man. I kinda want to, I don’t know, romance you right now. I don’t know.”

Jonny snorts. Patrick looks at him looking back, follows the movement of his slow blinks, like he’s getting sleepy again, and Patrick realises that for all the time they’ve known each other, even roomed together, he’s never seen it, the moment where Jonny falls asleep. He’s—greedy for it, he thinks, wants to witness, and it twists his insides. It would be such a small thing, and yet Patrick doesn’t know what to do. Normally, he’d punch Jonny’s shoulder and tell him to get his fat ass out of bed, lazy fucker. But normally he wouldn’t even have woken up this way, naked in bed with Jonny, sweaty and smelling of sex and lake water. 

Normally there wouldn’t be a whole land expanding itself inside of Patrick right this very moment to accommodate all the things he’s allowed to feel now, and all the things he’s allowed to want, and all the things he’s gonna get in return. 

“Yeaaaah, this is awkward,” Jonny says, low and half-stifled, but with a sweet little smile at the corner of his lips, like he’s delighted about it. Patrick laughs, gives his limbs a small shake, trying to dislodge the embarrassed knot in his stomach.

“Dude, why is this so weird? We fucked, like, three times yesterday. I let you come in my mouth. It shouldn’t be—”

The thing is, Patrick’s calm. He’s calm and they’re whispering, the air still heavy-hot and stuffy, and Patrick thinks of covering Jonny, body all along his, until they’re too hot and can’t stand it anymore. 

And it’s weird. 

Jonny’s hand slides over the sheets, slow but not careful, until his fingertips touch Patrick’s ribs, tanned skin dark on Patrick’s pasty white chest, and Patrick’s fingers go to Jonny’s wrist almost immediately, like Jonny’s just pushed the right button. Just like that. Easy.

“Don’t be shy, Pat.”

“Fuck you, I’m not the one blushing.”

Jonny purses his mouth and turns his face more into the pillow, red and embarrassed and fuck, it’s cute. It’s so cute. Jesus, fuck this guy, Patrick’s in love with such a—such a—ugh, _Jonny_.

Jonny takes a deep breath. “You should kiss me,” he says, then, and scoots closer, hooking their legs together, gives him a look probably meant to be resolute or something, but just looks super dumb.

“Your breath fucking reeks, man.” Patrick smiles.

“So does yours, just fucking kiss me.”

And Patrick does. Slow and sweet, not even all that deep but it hooks itself inside of him and tugs at something behind his lungs, makes him close his eyes, tighten his fingers on Jonny’s jaw. Jonny’s gentle with it, dragging his lips over Patrick’s, pulling back a fraction then going back in again, plush and careful, and so small and yet so big. So gigantic.

Jonny ends the kiss, gives a small peck at the corner of Patrick’s lips, brushes their noses together, and when Patrick opens his eyes, Jonny’s quiet, smiling a slight smile, his eyes all black in the warm gloom of the room, the rosy tint of it. There’s a sun spot on his cheek since he’s moved—or the sun’s moved—and Patrick pokes at it, right on the edge of his cheekbone. Like a kiss, he thinks, and feels completely ridiculous. Fuck, but this is the sappiest thing to have ever sapped in the history of sappiness they’ve got going on. 

“Alright,” Jonny says. “Alright, we’re deciding right now. It’s not weird.”

“Huh?” Patrick looks from the sun spot back to Jonny’s eyes.

Jonny lowers his voice more, gets closer, even, says, “It’s you, dumbass. And it’s—it’s us. And it’s _not_ weird,” even getting his captainly edge to it, pushing his hips against Patrick’s, hand wide on his side.

Patrick rolls back against him without a second of hesitation, before he even realises, and huffs a breath out, because of fucking course Jonny would just decide. Jonny’s will is the strongest, most stubborn, most infuriating thing Patrick’s ever known.

“Just like that?” he says.

“Yep.”

“You just decided that.”

“Yeeeeeep.”

He looks so certain and smug and ridiculous, so very _him_ , Patrick just—he can’t—

He kicks Jonny off the bed.

“You fucking arrogant asshole,” he says as Jonny yelps in surprise, tumbles off, limbs flailing about, hand trying to catch himself in the blankets but only managing to drag them with him, leaving Patrick naked and uncovered on the bed. Patrick laughs as Jonny mumbles something in French from under the pile of covers, all salty about it the way Patrick _knew_ he would be. If there’s one thing Patrick can do it’s— 

Jonny gives a loud yell and is on him before Patrick can even react, naked thighs straddling him as he shoves Patrick’s face into the pillows.

Patrick squirms, tries to get some traction to overbalance Jonny, tells him to, “Get off, jackass,” but Jonny just _crows_ above him, rubbing his sweaty balls on Patrick’s lower back, absolutely nonplussed by the way Patrick’s hitting at his leg with his fist from behind.

And then he gets real low, mouth on Patrick’s ear and chest sticky on his back. “There, there, Lil’ Peekaboo,” he says, laughing, jumping off Patrick and running out of the room, bare assed and dick flopping around.

“You motherfucker!”

Patrick gives chase.

 

 

\- - - 

 

 

“You broke my mother’s vase,” Jonny says, taking a sip of his tea. “It was her favorite vase.”

“Shut up, it wasn’t.” 

The kitchen’s small, and Patrick’s sitting on the old, ugly beige plastic laminate countertop by the sink, enjoying the slight breeze coming through the window there, cute little lace curtain floating off and tickling his shoulder. At least they’re both wearing underwear—if you can call the criminally tight things Jonny’s wearing underwear. Patrick should be used to them at this point, but they’re somehow a brand new experience now he can properly look, now he knows what’s inside that trunk.

He snickers into his coffee and Jonny shoots him an exasperated look from where he’s leaning against the stove, large swipe of sunshine crossing his stomach and thighs, skin in the shadows a warm brown—almost as brown as the cupboards fake wood. “Drink your hippie shit, asshole,” Patrick says with a tilt of his chin.

“It’s tea. S’good for you.”

“It smells like wheat. I can fucking smell it from here.”

Jonny rolls his eyes and takes a sip. Patrick smiles in his cup of coffee. 

Through the window, the waters of the lake shimmer under the sun. It’s going to be a bright, hot day like yesterday. They should go swim, Patrick thinks, keep the lake water smell on their skin, the sunshine-salty taste, too. Keep it all close until Patrick can’t get rid of it. By the time they’re done here, he wants to get a goddamn boner every time he smells sunscreen.

“Hey. Hey, Pat. Hey Pat,” Jonny says, soft while blowing over the rim of his cup, steam rising in front of his face. There are beads of sweat at his temples. They haven’t even showered yet.

Jonny’s thinner than usual since they haven’t started to bulk up again, but still strong, still solid. Always exactly what Patrick wants and needs.

“What.”

“Come fishing with me. You wanna?” 

Jonny’s smile is small but sharp, a quick twist of the lips and Patrick knows he’s being teased, so he shrugs, takes a sip of coffee, says, “Sure,” casual-like. As if they don’t both know Patrick has minus one-hundred interest in fishing.

Jonny puts his cup down carefully, pushing it away from the edge with the back of his hand. “Wait, really?” he says, not quite looking at Patrick, but Patrick sees how he curls his toes against the tiled floor, shifting his weight to his heels. 

“Yeah, dude, why not?”

Jonny—Jonny just unfurls with happiness—there’s no other word—his whole face lighting up, his smile crinkling the corner of his eyes and he immediately gets all up in Patrick’s space, hands on his knees to spread them apart so he can get close. He almost makes Patrick spill his coffee where it gets stuck between their chests until Patrick can get it out to put it down. It ends up in the sink, but whatever. 

Jonny leans in, kisses Patrick’s neck, hands wide and soft on Patrick’s side, sliding up under his shirt.

Patrick breathes deep. It’s summer. Outside the lake waits for them, and they’ve got weeks and weeks together like this. Years unfolding in front of them. _Years_. God.

Finally.

He turns his face into Jonny’s shoulder and kisses the muscle there. Because he can. “Yeah, Jonny. Let’s catch some fish.”

 

 


End file.
